


Something both terrible and sweet

by Leandra



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arthur takes it like a man, Bottom Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), M/M, Merlin is a Little Shit (Merlin), Merlin is the court physician's assistant, POV Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:48:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27592952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leandra/pseuds/Leandra
Summary: Written for Bottom Arthur fest (November 2020).*-*Arthur has had a complicated relationship with Gaius’ new assistant from the very start. You could say they definitely started off on the wrong foot after Merlin confronted him in the courtyard for tormenting Morris during his knife-throwing practice. Merlin had been cheeky to the point of insolence and courageous to the point of stupidity, and Arthur had thrown him into the dungeon with utmost satisfaction after fending off Merlin’s hilariously bad swing. Frustratingly enough, Arthur hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Merlin after that.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 295
Collections: Bottom Arthur Fest





	Something both terrible and sweet

**Author's Note:**

> Age Information: Merlin is 17, while Arthur is maybe 20. 
> 
> Betaed by the wonderful @TheDragon! Thank you so much for the great beta!

When Arthur thinks about acting on his inappropriate feelings regarding the court physician’s young assistant, he usually envisions a scene like this: Merlin, his dark hair tousled, cheeks flushed, down on his knees, insolent mouth closed around Arthur’s dick, moaning as he sucks him off, his ridiculously long eyelashes resting on his cheeks, looking pretty as he takes Arthur in. And later: Merlin, bent over Arthur’s writing desk in his chambers, his breeches pooled around his ankles, vocally praising Arthur for his prowess as Arthur slams into him. 

The reality is nothing like that. 

This is what happens instead.

*-* 

Arthur has had a complicated relationship with Gaius’ new assistant from the very start. You could say they definitely started off on the wrong foot after Merlin confronted him in the courtyard for tormenting Morris during his knife-throwing practice. Merlin had been cheeky to the point of insolence and courageous to the point of stupidity, and Arthur had thrown him into the dungeon with utmost satisfaction after fending off Merlin’s hilariously bad swing. Frustratingly enough, Arthur hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Merlin after that. He had never had anyone stand up to him and call him out for anything in his life before. 

It didn’t enrage so much as fascinate him. Who was this boy, who was clearly two years, if not three, younger than him, and who spoke to him like they were equals - or worse, like Arthur was someone to be taught a lesson, his grin mocking like he knew something Arthur didn’t? 

When they next met, he couldn’t help but challenge him - a fight that Arthur should have easily won. Instead, he had stumbled clumsily through the market, getting tangled up in ropes and baskets, confused as to why he couldn’t seem to get the upper hand. Only much later, in the stillness of his own room at night, did he consider that he might have been distracted by Merlin’s pouty mouth and glinting eyes. 

After that, he decides to stay clear of Merlin from now on. 

It doesn’t work out like that, of course. 

*-*

With Merlin being the physician’s apprentice, Arthur sees a lot of him. 

During the knights’ training, someone always gets injured, and Gaius more often than not sends Merlin to tend to the scrapes and bruises. It becomes common for Merlin to stay around during training, his satchel ready with bandages and salves, his blue eyes watching the sparring with interest. He patches the knights up readily, but there’s always a sharp, observant, and sometimes scathing remark on his lips as he chastises them for dropping their guard or being too reckless. Despite his cheek and loose lips, and the deftness with which he dresses wounds and applies bandages, calling the knights out when they wince during treatment, he’s surprisingly popular. He’s greeted with much cheer when he shows up, and they laugh at his sharp wit and insolent remarks during training, attempting to impress him with their skills on the field, like he’s a maiden and they are trying to win a tournament.

He’s a distraction, and one that costs Arthur many a bruise or worse. 

It’s one of these days that Arthur finds himself in the physician’s chambers, sitting on the operating table - a large wooden table that bears the stain of a whole lot of injuries - with a gash on his thigh, Merlin standing between his legs and neatly stitching up the gratefully small slash with a heated needle. 

Arthur valiantly tries not to flinch or wince or - Gods forbid - groan, even though the needle pricks and stings, his nerves singing with pain. How something so small can hurt so terribly, he has no idea. The slash itself wasn’t as painful.

He must have made a noise, though, because Merlin presses a dark bottle into his hands, the same one he used to disinfect the wound in the first place. “Here,” Merlin says, his eyes bright as he looks at Arthur, “it helps with the pain.” 

Arthur grimaces at the smell wafting from the open bottle, but he takes a swig nonetheless. The alcohol is potent and burns like fire through his veins, not enough to make his brain foggy, but enough to distract from the prick of the needle and the unsettling feeling of something sliding through his flesh. He dares to look down, shuddering briefly as he watches Merlin lead the needle surely. His stitches are small and precise and he’s concentrating hard, tongue between his teeth. 

“Done,” he says when he finally straightens, nicking the thread he used with a knife and tying it off. He picks the bottle out of Arthur’s hands and wets a cotton rag with alcohol, pressing it firmly onto the wound. Arthur can’t help the hiss and Merlin sends him an unimpressed glance from under sooty lashes. 

“Why did you need to stitch it, anyway?” Arthur complains, glaring at Merlin. “Wouldn’t a bandage be enough?”

Merlin scowls at him like he’s mentally impaired. “It’s deep,” he says, and there’s a silent “you idiot,” following his words. “Also, you’re the Prince. We can’t have you get an infection from a training wound. The only way you’re allowed to die is on the battlefield.” 

“Hah,” Arthur huffs, unimpressed. He watches as Merlin fetches a mortar and pestle and starts grinding up herbs, mixing the resulting powder with some kind of fatty substance, before adding colorless drops from at least three different small bottles. He has his tunic pushed up, showing off surprisingly strong forearms for someone otherwise so twiggy. Arthur tries not to stare, taking another swig of the alcohol in the brown glass bottle. His thigh feels better already, smarting only a little bit. He looks down at the reddened part with Merlin’s neat little stitches. It’s going to be a small, tidy mark, he can already tell. He hates that Merlin is competent at what he does, even though he benefits from Merlin’s capability.

Merlin returns and steps in between his legs, his fingers cool as he applies the salve and poultice onto Arthur’s skin. Arthur sucks in a breath, not because the touch is painful, but because Merlin is once more really close and he’s trailing his fingers against Arthur’s inner thighs. It sends confused sparks of arousal through Arthur’s body, and he squirms on the cool table and bites his lip, hoping to will down his attraction. 

Merlin is applying a bandage, wrapping it tightly around Arthur’s thigh and binding it off, securing the poultice in place. “You have to come back tonight so I can redress the wound. If the redness disappears, we will keep it dry.” 

Arthur wants to scoff, because he’s pretty sure Merlin is required to come to his quarters to treat him, not the other way around, but he forgets all about an angry retort when Merlin glances at him with an inscrutable expression on his face. 

“Is that all the help you require, my Lord?” Merlin says, and it sounds saucy and insincere, and Arthur wants to sneer, but then Merlin adds, looking pointedly at his lap, where his smallclothes barely conceal the fact of his arousal, “Or will you require help for that other condition as well?” 

Arthur is flabbergasted for a moment, before he says, as haughtily as possible, “It’s of no concern to you,” but his breath is punched out of him when Merlin slides his fingers, still cool, up the inside of his thigh and places his hand against his front. 

“Are you sure, my Lord?” Merlin says, his voice dropped low, and no, no, Arthur isn’t sure, not with Merlin’s nimble fingers placed right over his rather interested cock. 

“I’m sure,” he hisses, because he’s a Prince and nobody lays a hand on him unless he says so, and also, it’s usually he who does the propositioning, and how dare Merlin… With a grunt, he pushes Merlin back and hops from the table, wincing when pain shoots up his thigh at the impact of his feet hitting the floor.

“Careful,” Merlin says, and he sounds almost normal when he turns around to start cleaning up, wiping out the mortar with a rag and collecting herbs and bottles. 

Arthur slips into his breeches, growls something about Merlin being required to see after him tonight after dinner and not to be late, before making his way out of the physician’s quarters with as much dignity as a stitched thigh and a hard-on allow. 

*-* 

A week later, Merlin comes to Arthur’s quarters to remove the stitches. He works mutely, bent over Arthur’s lap, cutting the thread and pulling out the stitches with tweezers - a rather strange sensation that sends goosebumps up Arthur’s skin (maybe, it’s more Merlin’s warm breath washing over his thigh than the sensation of having his stitches removed that makes Arthur shiver). 

“Done,” Merlin finally announces, wrapping his instruments and the pulled thread into a cloth, interrupting another rather lengthy and interesting fantasy Arthur was having about Merlin’s mouth on him. Again. It doesn’t help that he’s sitting on the edge of his bed, the stage of many a fantasy over the last couple of weeks.

Merlin stows away the cloth into his satchel and when he looks up, their eyes meet and Arthur must look flushed, because a small grin tugs at the corner of Merlin’s lips as he regards him, his eyes twinkling. “I see, you’re still suffering from that other condition,” he says teasingly and bites his lip as he glances down into Arthur’s lap. There’s something falsely coy about him, and it makes Arthur’s hackles rise. 

“I’m perfectly fine,” Arthur snaps and reaches to pull up his breeches, flustered by having been caught staring at Merlin, angry with himself about even thinking about such things with Merlin, of all people. Irritating, confusing, mouthy Merlin, who refuses to treat Arthur like the Prince he is. 

Merlin scoffs loudly, before delivering a push to Arthur’s chest that sends Arthur backwards into the pillows and makes him squawk in irritation and surprise. Nobody puts their hands on a royal person unless they say so, but of course, Merlin disregards these rules as well as he does all the other ones. 

“What is wrong with you! I could have you put in the dungeons for that!” Arthur says, embarrassed that despite the force of his words, he sounds shivery and not all determined and commanding. 

“You won’t,” Merlin says rather confidently, and seriously, who is he to disregard Arthur’s superiority like that?, but then Arthur forgets to think, forgets to breathe even, because Merlin climbs over him. It’s unbearably sexy, the way Merlin settles across his thighs, his eyes lidded, hair full of ridiculous cow-licks. He is rather ridiculous-looking as a whole, Arthur thinks. Ears like dinner plates. Huge eyes. Those sharp cheekbones. Much too full lips. Scrawny.

“Seriously, I should have you shackled,” Arthur retorts, but his voice lacks conviction and Merlin grins like he knows Arthur’s threat bears no risk, then follows him down in one smooth motion. Arthur swallows, confused by Merlin’s warm breath against his face and Merlin’s blue eyes, intense and amused, above him. The air is charged with possibility. 

This is not how it usually goes, but Arthur is reluctantly curious as to what Merlin is about to do, so he decides to wait it out, awkward or not. Arthur has the advantage of bulk and fighting skill, and he could easily push Merlin of. If he really wanted to. 

It’s like Merlin wants to prove something, the way his eyes flicker over Arthur’s face, never settling anywhere, but returning to his mouth again and again.

Instead of another insolent answer, Merlin just rolls his eyes and then swoops in, pressing their mouths together. Arthur half-heartedly struggles to break the kiss, then dominate it, but Merlin licks into his mouth so determinedly, so sweetly, that Arthur just gives in, letting his lips fall open on a groan, sagging back into the mattress. 

Against his mouth, Merlin moans, a satisfied, triumphant sound, letting his weight slump down. For a moment, Arthur doesn’t know what to do with his hands, aware they are hovering indecisively next to Merlin’s waist, before he tells himself to get a grip (quite literally), letting them fall on Merlin’s hips. He is rewarded by Merlin’s hips pressing down and oh, it shouldn’t be a surprise that Merlin is hard against him. Merlin feels so very different, bony and sharp-angled where Arthur is used to round, soft limbs. He kisses differently, too, taking a much more active role than any of the girls Arthur has bedded, and Arthur has trouble keeping up with the battle of lips and teeth and tongue. 

Arthur pushes, tries to reverse their positions, but Merlin just rolls them over again with surprising strength, trapping Arthur beneath him, his sharp little teeth finding the fleshy part of Arthur’s bottom lip, eliciting a curse from Arthur. Panting, Merlin trails his lips over Arthur’s jaw, down the side of his neck, briefly nippling at the juncture of Arthur’s collarbone, his hands, cool and surprisingly soft, reaching underneath Arthur’s tunic and pushing the fabric up, revealing Arthur’s chest by increments. Merlin’s lips, parted and wet, mouth across Arthur’s chest next, briefly closing around a nipple, making Arthur hiss and dig his heels into the mattress, before he moves on, kissing and licking a determined path down the center of Arthur’s torso. 

It’s more like Arthur fantasised about - in fact, it’s just like the moment he might have envisioned two nights ago when Merlin came to check up on the state of his thigh and Arthur brought himself off after, and Arthur whimpers in anticipation, body bowing under the onslaught of Merlin’s mouth. He pushes one hand into Merlin’s curls, pressing him downwards, and closes his eyes, determined to get Merlin’s pretty mouth to where he wants it most. The wet press of Merlin’s lips on his skin makes his stomach flutter, and Arthur grips Merlin’s dark strands tighter, hissing at the hand worming its way past his breeches and into his smallclothes, wrapping around his length and pushing the fabric down and away. 

“Fuck, yes,” he says hoarsely, surprised at the sound of his voice, raw and dirty and wanting. 

Merlin presses a kiss against his hip and pulls his breeches off, and Arthur squeezes his eyes shut, imagining he can almost already feel the heat of Merlin’s mouth, the smooth wetness of it. There’s an expectant moan building up in his throat and he grips Merlin’s hair more tightly, and he wants it, so, so much, but then Merlin grips his hips and flips him, making him faceplant rather unexpectedly into the duvet. 

“What-” he growls, but nearly swallows his tongue when Merlin reaches and pulls his arse cheeks apart, cool air shivering over Arthur’s most private part. 

“I know what you want,” Merlin says roughly against his skin, “and I know you usually get what you want. Because you’re the Prince. Only I think you don’t really know what you want at all, ” he pauses, his breath warm and wet against the small of Arthur’s back, and despite his sure words he suddenly sounds hesitant. “You have no idea what you really want, because it wouldn’t occur to you to ask.” 

“That’s ridiculous,” Arthur scoffs, squirming away from Merlin’s touch. “I’ll have you know, I’m pretty sure all I want from you is tend to my wounds and maybe this once get my cock sucked and-” 

Behind him, Merlin makes a snorting sound, like he thinks Arthur is simple or something, but then he leans forward and places a kiss right _there_ , a kiss that makes Arthur squirm and whimper. It’s also quite frankly the most shocking thing that ever happened to him, even worse than Merlin confronting him in the courtyard in front of everyone and talking to him like Arthur was a misbehaving child. 

“How dare you-” he growls, attempting to push himself up, but his arms and legs are made of jelly, only Merlin does it again, his mouth shockingly wet and warm, and Arthur grunts into the pillow instead. This isn’t at all what he signed up for, isn’t at all what he wanted (he’s sure), but despite the weirdness, it sends fiery tingles up Arthur’s spine and makes his cock twitch. 

“You’ll let me take you apart like this,” Merlin says determinedly, like it’s a given, spreading his hands on Arthur’s arse cheeks, pressing another licking kiss against Arthur’s revealed pucker, “and then after you’ve come, I’ll fuck you.” 

He says it like a promise, like an incentive, and he sounds so sure—of Arthur, of himself, of the circumstances - and it drives Arthur insane while at the same time making him rock-hard and aching. 

“I…” Arthur says, but the moment the word is out of his mouth, he has already forgotten what it is he wanted to say. Merlin’s mouth is back, tongue teasing and licking inside the pucker, sending heat through his body, making him tremble, and with a groan, Arthur gives in, his body relaxing as a strange sense of relief washes through him, unexpectant and surprising. It’s like all the fight drains out of him at once, just from the touch of Merlin’s mouth. 

“I’ll take care of you,” Merlin whispers, sounding earnest and aroused, commencing his frankly filthy actions, tongue bolder now as it invades the tight muscle. “You’re so amazing, Arthur,” he praises between swipes of his tongue, “always so in control, but you don’t have to be with me.”

“Shut up,” Arthur breathes in protest, a protest that lacks conviction because he follows it up with a wail when Merlin grips him more tightly and starts to slide his tongue into his body, Arthur’s muscle twitching against his mouth. Merlin does as he’s told, or maybe he just doesn’t reply because he’s insubordinate like that, instead setting a gentle rhythm that has Arthur whimpering and trembling. 

He’s half-aware he’s cursing now, a stream of filthy, hoarse, disrupted words, his cock rubbing against the fabric of his bedspread, while Merlin’s tongue and mouth do things that are so unspeakable that Arthur doesn’t have a name for it. It doesn’t matter, because he comes, quickly and hard, crying out with Merlin’s tongue licking into him. 

He doesn’t have a moment to regain his breath, because Merlin draws back only to push a finger where his tongue has been, the digit sliding in smoothly. Arthur grunts out an overwhelmed hiss, but then Merlin crooks his finger and applies pressure like he’s searching for something, and Arthur’s spent cock gives a frantic little jerk, dribbling come onto the soiled bed sheets beneath him the moment Merlin’s finger pokes at something. 

“Shit,” Arthur whimpers, “what the hell, you…”, but is too incoherent to say a full sentence. Merlin presses another finger into him with a smug little laugh, gratifyingly out of breath though. “Gods, you smug little fucker,” Arthur complains, unable to lie still. “You can’t ever tell anyone-” 

“Shhhshhh,” Merlin interrupts him, moving around behind Arthur, clothes rustling. “Why should I? You would have me thrown into the dungeons for lying and then I wouldn’t get to do that ever again. Please, I’m not stupid.”

“That’s debatable,” Arthur breathes with a moan, and Merlin laughs and twists his fingers deeper. He removes them, only to return them with something slick and cool that warms quickly as he rubs it into Arthur’s arse. 

“Well, if you must, get on with it!” Arthur demands, because he knows about this, at least, and he’s not going to play the blushing virgin. He hasn’t been on the receiving end, but he fucked girls like that, because if a prince learns something early about taking his pleasure, it’s that he shouldn’t burden himself with royal bastards if avoidable. 

Merlin only laughs and pulls out his fingers, before reaching for Arthur’s hips, tugging him upwards onto his knees. It is somewhat better lying face down, because this feels so much more intimate and real, but before Arthur can say anything or suggest a change of positions (or plans), Merlin presses against him, the head of his cock pushing against the loosened muscle of his pucker and he forgets talk again in favour of a hiss. Merlin presses forward and it’s indescribable, a harsh stretch that should be nothing but painful, but isn’t just that. Arthur grips the red bedspread and hangs his head, biting his lip tightly, refusing to make a sound.

Behind him, Merlin has no such qualms, groaning as he shifts his hips, a litany of “fuck, fuck, fuck” and other half-formed words spilling from his lips. He surges forward on a last push and it punches the breath out of Arthur, making him heave and grip the linens. Against his back, Merlin is all warm skin and coarse peasant fabric, and when he moves, the wiry hair of his thighs tickles against the back of Arthur’s legs. 

Arthur braces himself, but he isn’t prepared when Merlin hauls him upwards and back into his lap, and he yelps at the movement and they way Merlin shifts inside him. Merlin’s moist, warm breath trembles against his neck and Merlin buries his face there, his hand sneaking around Arthur’s waist and reaching between his legs, where his cock is just filling out again after his erstwhile orgasm. With satisfaction, Arthur notes absentmindedly that Merlin’s hand is shaking. 

Arthur hears his own breath coming unsteadily in short, laboured puffs, and he would be embarrassed, but Merlin’s breathing is equally erratic. When Merlin starts moving again, he does so carefully, much more carefully than Arthur would have done were he in Merlin’s position, and it rattles Arthur to his core. Merlin rocks into him with little thrusts of his hips, hand stroking his cock, and it’s tender and thoughtful, slow and deliberate, until it isn’t anymore and they are both crying out, Merlin’s mouth latching onto his shoulder as he pounds into him. They fall forward again, Merlin pressed against his back as his hips jerk, whispering and groaning his name into his ear like prayer. It’s uncoordinated, like Merlin maybe isn’t that experienced after all, even though he appeared to know all the tricks earlier. 

He couldn’t have predicted this, but Arthur can’t find it in himself to care that it’s him on his knees, because it feels incredible, Merlin inside him, filling him, scraping against that sensitive part that makes him twitch and cry out. He reaches for his own cock, feels it leaking in his hand and starts stroking in time with Merlin’s frantic thrusts. 

“Arthur,” Merlin whimpers, “Gods, Arthur, I can’t believe you let me… I’ve only wanted to do this since I first saw you… fuck, Arthur.” Arthur thinks back to their first meeting, at Merlin sassing him in the courtyard and he thinks, “shit, he was right, me too”, and the realisation rushes through him and triggers his orgasm, while behind him, Merlin goes wild and even more uncoordinated, keening wet gasps into his shoulder. 

They crash down on the duvet in a tangle of limbs, the sheets beneath Arthur disgusting and twice-soiled. Merlin lies across his back, a heavy weight, pressing small, shivery kisses against his shoulder. 

Arthur allows both of them a couple of breaths, before he pushes back, wincing when Merlin slips from his body and something warm and wet slides down the inside of his thighs. When he turns to gaze at Merlin, Merlin is lying next to him, face flushed, his hair even more in disarray. He suddenly looks unbearably young and a little wide-eyed and Arthur is reminded that for all his gutsy words and cheeky insubordination, Merlin is still 3 years his junior. 

Gods, he just got fucked by a boy. 

Merlin bites his lip and looks uncertain for a moment, before his lips quirk, displaying humour that doesn’t quite reach his nervous eyes. “I guess we cured your condition,” he says, like he wants to negate that he was practically sobbing into Arthur’s neck just moments ago. 

Arthur rolls his eyes, shifting and wincing. He feels pretty disgusting and he wants to burn these bedclothes, and now that the endorphins are slowly leaving his body, his thigh, where he got the stitches removed, smarts. “You are an incredible idiot and much too cheeky for your own good,” Arthur sighs. 

At his words, Merlin beams, a real smile, bright and sunny and he lifts his arms above his head, stretching like a cat, looking maybe a tiny bit smug. “Really, it was getting old, the way you ogled me when you thought I wasn’t looking,” he says, before a yawn splits his face. 

Snorting, Arthur pushes himself up and gets rid of the soiled bedspread, pulling it forcefully out from underneath Merlin. He looks lovely, laughing and squirming on Arthur’s bed, his skin pale like marble against the red sheets, his tunic rucked up, the lines of his body long and lean. 

Arthur tosses the ruined linens to the floor, then lets his tunic follow after giving himself a good wipe-down, before he flops back down again, exhausted and just a little sore. 

“Who taught you?” Arthur asks, too tired to demand for Merlin to leave him. 

“Gaius showed me how to treat wounds,” Merlin says, frowning at Arthur. “He’s teaching me all he knows. I want to be the next court physician. When you are king.” 

“No, you imbecile,” Arthur grumbles and rolls his eyes. “Who taught you to fuck?”

“Oh,” Merlin breathes and chuckles. “That.” He rolls onto his side and pulls his legs up, placing his head upon his arm, his eyes travelling the lines of Arthur’s body. “A friend.” 

“A friend here in Camelot?” Arthur demands, surprised at the note of danger wavering in his voice. He’s not jealous. That’s ridiculous. 

Merlin catches on immediately, because he’s, in fact, not an idiot. “A friend back home,” he says smugly, still smirking. 

Arthur decides he’s too tired to call him out on his self-satisfaction, so he pulls the blanket over himself and closes his eyes. “You may stay, but I want you gone in the morning,” he mutters. 

“If you want,” Merlin replies, but he sounds pleased and shifts, pulling at the blanket and sliding under it himself, making Arthur immediately reevaluate his offer. 

“You’re going to hog my blanket, aren’t you?” he asks, trying to put as much disdain into his tone as he’s able to. 

“Not if you come closer,” Merlin suggests lightly, but it’s he who shifts forward, his cold feet scratching down Arthur’s calves, curly hair tickling Arthur’s arm. 

It’s weirdly nice and Arthur tries to remember when he last shared a bed with someone and comes up blank. He really should send Merlin away.

He’s surprised when Merlin suddenly moves, pressing a kiss against his lips, a bit clumsily, mouth wet and soft. It’s oddly sweet, and Arthur parts his lips and kisses him back, his hand coming up to wrap around the curls at the back of Merlin’s head. 

It’s a long, soft, languid kiss, unlike the eager and frantic ones they shared earlier, and Arthur hums contentedly against Merlin’s mouth. Maybe, Arthur thinks, it wouldn’t be too bad, if Merlin stayed. 

*-* 

“You’ll have to stop ending up on my operating table for training injuries,” Merlin says sternly as he inspects a small wound on Arthur’s upper arm. 

“Do you need to stitch it?” Arthur asks, hating that he sounds slightly anxious. He still remembers the harsh prick of the needle. 

Merlin rolls his eyes at him with fond exasperation. “Not this time - you’re lucky,” he replies and steps back, reaching for a small pack of bandages. “I’m just going to wrap it and then you’re free to go. Just no more swinging a sword around today. And maybe take better care next time.” 

“I was distracted,” Arthur grumbles reproachfully, thinking about Merlin leaning against the fence, his eyes keen on Arthur while he sparred. How Arthur is supposed to think about anything but Merlin’s hands or mouth on him when he’s near is a mystery. 

Merlin shoots him an unimpressed look, like he can’t believe Arthur is really trying to shift the blame onto him, then douses his wound with alcohol, making him hiss, before he wraps Arthur’s arm tightly, his fingers gentle on Arthur’s skin. 

“There, as good as new,” Merlin quips, then steps back and starts tidying up his workplace. “I told you,” he says slyly, “you can’t die before you’re king and I’m court physician. I’ll never get another job if the Prince of Camelot dies while in my care.”

Arthur huffs out a laugh. “Even you aren’t that incompetent. It’s not like Gaius would let you treat me for something really dangerous.” 

Merlin halts his movements and turns, his eyes glinting as he regards Arthur with a tilt of his head. “But still you trust me with taking care of you,” he says, his voice laced with double-meaning, taking a step forward between Arthur’s legs, his hands coming down on Arthur’s thighs. His fingers are absentmindedly rubbing against the scar they both know is there, the small line with its neat stitches, still a bit red, but fading. 

Arthur’s mouth twitches at the challenge in Merlin’s eyes. “Obviously, I will require you to come to my rooms tonight and make sure you did your work correctly…”

“Of course, Sire,” Merlin says demurely, but his gaze, flitting between Arthur’s eyes and lips, suggest that his thoughts about what will happen later this evening are not at all chaste. He leans forward, bringing his mouth to the shell of Arthur’s ear, where his breath ghosts hotly over Arthur’s sensitive flesh. 

“I’m looking forward to checking you over,” he whispers, “very thoroughly.” 

Groaning, Arthur bites his lip, thinking that if Merlin is the death of him, it’s because he will die in a bed, probably with Merlin’s cock up his arse. 

Arthur is surprised to find he reached out to cup Merlin’s face, his thumb stroking the corner of Merlin’s mouth, and they are still standing too close, pressed together. Merlin’s eyes soften, grow warm and gentle, and his mouth parts on a soft breath. Arthur feels the overwhelming urge to catch Merlin’s lips in a kiss and his heart swells with a strange and unknown feeling, an ache that wasn’t there before, something both terrible and sweet. 

He swallows roughly, then pushes Merlin away carefully, but determinedly. It wouldn’t do them any good to be found snogging in Gaius’ workshop. 

“I’m holding you to that,” Arthur says hoarsely, trying to pull himself together. 

Merlin gives him a nod, so full of cheek and promise, that Arthur feels wobbly as he hops from the table, staggering stiffly towards the door. 

“I see, you’re still suffering from that other condition,” Merlin calls after him, a laugh colouring his voice. “I fear it’s a chronical illness.” 

Arthur rolls his eyes and decides not to answer. If anything, it’s insanity, he thinks. 

Merlin’s boisterous laughter follows him out the door. 

The End


End file.
